


Summertime

by winter_machine



Category: Grey's Anatomy, Private Practice
Genre: Are sometimes the best kind, Everyone in the Shondaverse is screwed up in their own way, F/M, Generally Screwed Up Maddek Vibes, I have realized long tags are a thing and since I admitted I loved 2013 this just might work out, I'm still figuring it out, If not then welcome to 2013, Ill-advised Sexual Encounters, It was a very good year (for fic), Just filthy enough to fit in on this site, Markelia, Remember when Markelia was a thing, Screwed Up Amy, Unposted, i think, no one is a good person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_machine/pseuds/winter_machine
Summary: Mark's apartment has top-notch air conditioning.  Derek's sister stops by to take advantage, and notices something amiss.  (It's summer, and hot, and Derek is in Seattle.).No one hugs, and no one learns.
Relationships: Addison Montgomery/Mark Sloan, Amelia Shepherd/Mark Sloan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Summertime

**Author's Note:**

> Back in the glory days of long tumblr tags, Tumblr After Dark, fucked up Markelia, and all that good stuff ... I wrote some things for one particular person because I didn't think anyone else would want to read them. They were screwed up, and dark, and who likes that sort of thing on The Other Site? 
> 
> I'm still figuring out what AO3 is for, so ... enjoy?

He shoves the intercom button to shut off the noise. Must be his dry cleaning.

“Yeah?”

“I have Amelia for you, Dr. Sloan.”

Amelia … _oh._ “Thanks. You can send her up.” 

“’ _Amelia_ ’?” he asks, pulling the door open. “I haven’t seen you in … and what’s with the name?”

She shrugs. “Trying it on for size.”

She brings a breath of hot August air into the entryway, apparently not chilled sufficiently by the lobby or the elevator. There are dark tendrils of hair sticking damply to her cheeks. 

“How is it out there?”

“Revolting,” she says mildly. “And I don’t have AC, so…”

So. Why wouldn’t he share? His job – his other job – is to make up for Shepherd shortcomings, after all. 

“Come in, then. Can I take your…” and she shucks the knapsack from her shoulders. He juggles the weight of what feels like a thousand books – no wonder the back of her grey tee shirt is soaked through. 

“Enough books?”

“Never.” She shrugs. “Came from the library.”

Ah. “You want some water?”

“No,” she says as she sees him reaching for the Brita his housekeeper leaves filled in the refrigerator. “I’ll take a drink, though.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Pills, Mark. I’m done with _pills._ Doesn’t mean I can’t drink, or eat, or have other… “ she takes a pause he’s not sure he likes. “… _vices,_ ” she finishes finally, her eyes skating over him in a way that makes him uncomfortable. They’re silent for a moment, and then the central air gusts back on again like a sigh.

“Since when do you drink Hendrick’s?” She weighs the bottle in her hands. “Not bad.”

He takes it from her, watches her pour a generous glug of Grey Goose into a tumbler. 

“Do you want-“ he breaks off when she throws it back straight. Fast.

“Amy…”

“It’s _fine,_ Mark.” She pours a second one, hands it to him, and he downs it automatically. 

Amy’s pouring another when she shivers. Gooseflesh rises on her arms. “It’s freezing in here.”

“I pay good money for this climate,” he shrugs. 

She’s lounging against the bar, seemingly comfortable despite her sweaty clothes and he checks his watch as discreetly as he can. “So, Amy…”

“Can’t a person say hello?” When he doesn’t answer she cocks her head slightly. “Ah. Expecting someone?”

“No.” He follows her when she pushes off the wall, strides with purpose into the open living space, then disappears into his bedroom. “Where are you going?”

He finds her in the bathroom off his bedroom, hands propped on her hips, gaze focused on the shower.

“Amy.”

She turns around with a scrap of coffee-colored lace in her hands. “Who’s using you as a laundromat these days, Mark?” 

“A laundromat _and_ an icebox. If you want to send me back to that furnace of a dorm, the least you can do is let me know the lucky lady’s name.”

When he doesn’t answer she gives him a cat’s grin. “Don’t remember her name? But she must be coming back or she wouldn’t have left her … calling card.” 

The impassive expression Mark’s working hard to keep slips apart when he sees her bring the fistful of lace of to her own face.

“Jesus, Amy!” He snatches the panties from her hand.

“I’m a scientist! I’m just observing my surroundings.”

“Did you come here for a reason?”

“I don’t have AC; I told you.”

“You could have gone to the library,” he mutters.

“It’s always hot there,” she says innocently and when he looks up she’s got that lazy smile again, and the look in her eyes makes him shift a bit. 

“Amy…”

“I’m just teasing. Anyway…” and her pause feels weighty. “…got anything to eat?” she asks brightly, and he stuffs the fistful of lace into the vanity drawer. 

She’s already at the fridge when he gets into the kitchen, squatting low with her long hair covering her face.

“Nonfat yogurt? Pomegranate arils? _Carrot juice_?” she ticks them off, then hoists herself to her feet, holding the box of pomegranate seeds. 

He busies himself in the cabinets. “Yes. So? Want a smoothie?”

“No. I don’t want a smoothie. Mark… is someone _living_ here?”

“Yes. _I’m_ living here.”

“Right.” She nods. “So these are your … things. Okay.” He watches a fingerful of pomegranate seeds disappear between her lips.

“Heard anything from Derek?”

He pulls away from the cabinet so quickly he bangs his head. Eyes watering, he presses a fist to what is surely going to become a knot.

“Jeez,” Amy says mildly, swigging straight from the bottle of carrot juice. “I’m just asking.”

“No. I haven’t. Why do you –“

“Nancy asked me.”

“I thought you weren’t talking to them.” _Them_ is the clucking mass of Shepherd sisters, plus the mother hen, of course.

“I’m not. Can’t seem to stop them from talking to _me_ , though.”

“Look, Amy…”

“I’m just asking! I saw Addison, you know.”

He’s still rubbing the sore spot on his head, so squeezing his eyes shut probably just looks like pain. Physical pain. “Yeah?” he asks finally.

“She was a wreck.” Amy sounds casual, crunching on what he opens his eyes to see are more pomegranate seeds. 

“Amy, I don’t really want to talk about this with you.”

“So? I never want to talk about anything with … any of them but everyone talks to me anyway.” She sighs, swings herself onto the kitchen island and props her face in her fists. “Do you think I asked Addie to cry all over me about how her life was ruined?”

_Ruined._

Amy’s looking at him. “Don’t you want to know how she is?”

“I’ve … seen her. I see her at work.”

“She probably acts perfect at work.”

This is true. 

“You guys really screwed up,” she sighs, sounding almost … happy about it?

“I really don’t want to talk about this.”

She’s quiet for a moment, head tilted, drinking in … something. “It smells different in here,” she says finally.

“Maybe you should shower.”

“Very funny.”

“You haven’t been over in a while, Amy. And it’s good to see you, but-…”

“Why the rush?” She touches his arm when he doesn’t respond. Her fingers are cold. “I thought I could stay for a while … cool off … maybe study…”

“You’re already cold,” he says without thinking and she smiles, shakes out her hand. 

“So help me get warmed up,” she suggests.

“Amy…” He’s not sure what to say. _Not now_ or _not again_ or _that was one time_ but it wasn’t one time, because he’s assaulted with unwilling images, Amy in the wrought-iron bed he’s dragged to two apartments, Amy sliding off the black leather sofa onto her knees. Amy on the marble kitchen island.

“What?” He’s moved closer without realizing it, and she’s tugging him closer with mostly bare legs, skin chilled from the air conditioning. 

“Stop.” He says it now because her calves are insistent and if he lets her pull him in any more he may not be able to say it. History suggests, at least, that he won’t be able to….

And then the chill gives way to impossible warmth. He’s only moved inches but she’s not cold anymore; she’s radiating heat, and she’s looking at him with such obvious intent that he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. Among other places.

“What’s wrong, Mark? _I’m_ not married to your best friend.” He kisses her to shut her up, that’s what he’ll tell himself. His hands slide into her damp hair, one of hers disappearing into his shirt and the other skimming up his skull to –

“Ow!” He pulls back, rubbing at the spot he hit on the cabinet earlier.

She doesn’t say anything, just watches him, leaning back slightly. There’s a faint orange ring around her mouth from the carrot juice that reminds him too much of her small self with a milk mustache and nausea battles with arousal. _What the hell is wrong with me_?

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud. This would all be easier if not for the heat wave, if her shirt weren’t sweat damp and mostly translucent, if her mouth didn’t taste tart-sweet from those pomegranate seeds. This would all be easier if a lot of things.

_What are you doing with those?’ He smirks at the container she’s sliding neatly into his refrigerator, one of many from the green-striped bag he recognizes: the organic market down the street he usually avoids._

_They’re delicious? And they’ve got anti-oxidants … Mark! She’s laughing as he kisses her neck, salty sweet. You’re delicious, he says into her skin, and she laughs again. He pulls back and lifts her onto the kitchen island, loving the feel of her between his hands. The grocery bag drops from her fingers and she sighs with what must be anticipation._

_I feel like Persephone every time I eat these. She has a handful of the seeds somehow and now she crunches one between her teeth, eyes fluttering. Then she’s pushing a seed into his mouth, and he’s shuddering from the tart first taste and sucking on her fingers when the tart melts into sweet._

_Not bad, he admits, and she pulls her fingers out of his mouth, uses both hands to draw him closer. You taste better, he says, capturing her lips and then she pulls him even closer, wraps those endless legs around his hips. Closer, she whispers into his ear, or maybe he imagines it because she always wants to be closer, more, wrapping herself so tightly around him he’s not sure either one of them can breathe._

“Mark.” Amy’s staring at him. Her lips look swollen, eyes dark. Did he…

“Amy, stop,” he says finally. He reaches for her, intending to lift her down from the island, because seeing her there, the way she drew him in, is too much. She lets him take her weight but wraps herself around him when he does. 

“Amy…”

“I’m not warm yet.”

“Didn’t you come here to cool off?” His voice is weak and _he_ is weak because she’s flat on her back on his bed and he’s propped on his elbows, nipping the flesh at her neck that tastes like his own shame. 

“Keep up.” She rises halfway, pulls the damp shirt off and tosses it aside. He’s off balance and lets her flip them, straddling his hips. He watches as if it’s someone else’s life, someone else’s hands gliding up her bare sides, skimming over the simple white fabric of her bra. She rocks against him, laughter floating down, and she can’t be drunk from barely one vodka so maybe she’s drunk on her own power as she lets her long hair brush his bare skin and burns the skin of his hips with her flexing thighs. 

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t kick me out?”

She’s lolling on her side, reaching for the nightstand, and – oh, _shit._ “Amy, don’t-“

But she’s sitting up, holding a gold bracelet in her hand. 

“It’s not what you… “

_Take it off, he says._

_Not her clothes. They’re naked, in the middle of the big white sea of his bed, and she pulls her arm away from him._

_This is what bothers you? She laughs, though she doesn’t sound amused, the gold bracelet glinting on her wrist. I’m still wearing my rings, you know –_

_I know, he says sharply. This is different. And he doesn’t tell her why, doesn’t tell her that he helped Derek pick out that bangle, that he was the one who picked it up when the jeweler’s schedule and Derek’s latest surgery conflicted. It’s more recent and it feels like more of a betrayal and he doesn’t want to get into it, doesn’t want to explain it, so he just reaches for the bracelet again, and when she tries to pull back he grips her wrist in one hand and flicks the catch with the other. He knows how to make it open._

_Mark! She’s holding her wrist even though he knows he didn’t hurt her, all big eyes and sadness, and he doesn’t want to see that so he just tosses the bracelet onto his nightstand. You’re wearing enough of him, he says. Too much of him. And because he doesn’t want to see her expression he tumbles her forward, covering her body with his; he fills her and she sighs and her face is pressed too closely into the duvet for him to see her now._

“Five,” Amy says, turning the bracelet over in her palm. He could pretend not to know, but … and Amy’s showing him the engraved numeral inside the bangle. “For their fifth anniversary.” Her voice is calm, almost pleasant, and then she sits up, still holding the bracelet. 

“She’s living here.”

“Amy…”

“Those were her things. Of _course_ they were. She’s – Mark, are you two … _together_?” She pronounces the word like it tastes sour. When he doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes widen. “You’re not.”

“Look, just stop it.” He reaches for the bracelet and Amy pulls it out of reach, snaps it shut around one wrist.

“Hey, I’m not judging, Mark! I mean, who am I to judge?” 

“Can you just-“

But the rest of his sentence is lost as she wraps small cool fingers around him, re-awakening anything he thought was finished, and then she swings one leg across him and sinks down without warning, The heat that surrounds him is everywhere, behind his eyes, a rush of blood in his head, and he grabs her when she flexes her muscles torturously; he can’t stop her so makes do with leaving a trail of teeth down the side of her neck, fisting a handful of her long hair and pulling her head back just to see her arch. She hisses when he yanks, pushes on him until they’re horizontal and drags him back toward her with her thighs.

He starts to push her off but she’s sliding down his body, taking him in her mouth without preamble and he sees stars and tastes guilt. “Jesus, Amy.”

“I’ve learned a lot in school.” She’s laughing, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, and this gesture undoes him yet again: it’s the way she swiped strawberry ice cream away when he and Derek would take her to the boardwalk in the summer, sandy little hand clamped in his. He’s choking on history and regret and he can’t look into her eyes that are the same shade of blue as Derek’s and think about everything terrible he’s done. So he grabs her, pulls her up and pins her down.

“I said, stop.” 

She’s lying underneath him without struggle, slow smile pulling up just one corner of her mouth.

“I didn’t hear you say stop,” she says.

“Well, I did.”

“Get off me, then,” she says without any force and he doesn’t move, half his weight on one forearm, pinning her wrists with the other. He’s thrown a thigh over hers and it burns from the heat of her. 

“You should have left.” But he growls the words between her breasts.

“You should have done a lot of things,” she smirks, and then he’s pushing into her, one hand hoisting her leg higher to make more room. Something flashes across her features and he thinks for a moment it’s pain –

-and then worries for a moment when he doesn’t ask –

but she arches under him and he lets sensation block out his thoughts, driving her into the mattress, capturing her mouth when he can, marking the lush bottom lip with his teeth and when he maneuvers one hand between them she gasps into his mouth and then grabs his hair, the gold bangle hitting the side of his jaw.

_Damn it._

She convulses around him and he forces himself to hold back, he won’t feel anything, and she squeezes his tense hips with her shaking legs as he pulls out of her, drags his face toward hers and whispers wetly in his ear:

“Who can hold out longer, me or Addison?”

And he’s exploding without warning, sticky self loathing on her rosy thighs. She’s holding his head, almost like an embrace, her fingers somehow still cool even as fire licks him from the rest of her skin.

“I would have recognized her fancy shampoo, anyway.” That’s the first thing she’s said since they finished, and she sticks her wet head of the shower with that cat’s smile, and indeed the bathroom is filled with the heady scents Addison keeps in his shower now. 

Mark doesn’t know what to say so he just follows her into the shower, soaps the planes of his own chest resolutely. And he thought he couldn’t get clean before. 

“It’s just sex, though, right?” Amy’s still wearing Addison’s gold bracelet. “You don’t have … _feelings_ for…?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Ew,” she breathes. He can’t speak so he pushes her against the slick marble wall and uses his fingers to shut her up this time; she clamps eagerly around him and doesn’t protest. 

She’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel-

(“Did she pick these out too?” Amy asked and he’d had to push her down onto the bed, shut her up with his lips and the heat of her while her thighs sealed his ears shut and her hips bruised his hands.)

-and he pours them both a drink for lack of anything better to do, a matching towel tied around his waist.

She’s _looking_ at him and against his better judgment he says “what?”

“Nothing, just … now I’m cold again.” 

“Don’t you dare.” He almost smiles. “If you can’t handle the AC, why did you come here?”

“I guess I’m hard to satisfy.” She drains the glass.

“I disagree,” he says easily, and then he does smile at the outrage in her eyes and it’s almost comfortable again, even if they’re wearing nothing but towels and they’ve made a mess of his bed and she’s still wearing the gold bracelet –

“Amy, can you-“

A knock on the door interrupts him.

Oh god. 

He’s frozen in fear when he hears it again and then her voice through the closed door. “Mark, I forgot my key, can you please-“

Of course the doorman doesn’t call up for her anymore. She … she lives here, despite what he told Amy, and then the entire evening washes over him again with disgust.

_We can’t go back there, Mark._

_It’s not magic, Addison, it’s an apartment like any other –_

_It’s not! She’s crying – she was always crying that first week – it was special. It was special and we ruined it, and we can’t go back there. He’s tired of her crying, tired of the way she’ll wrap her fingers around him, lead him into her mouth, but she won’t take off Derek’s jewelry. And the crying. And she wants comfort but it sticks in his throat, and he takes her in his arms anyway, lets her fall against him and feels her tears at his neck. He gives her a minute, murmurs appropriately, and then he pulls back and takes her face in his hands, kisses her harder than he meant to. Or maybe just as hard as he meant to. She looks up in surprise._

_Mark-_

_But the words rush out of her when he pushes her against the wall; she used to tease him about his bare walls, not a painting or a photograph or anything now in the way of his spreading her out and pinning her and finally silencing her tears. Her skull bumps the paint and he grabs her closer, murmuring apologies, hoping she doesn’t notice that it’s her whimper of pain that drives him over the edge. He sets her down on shaking legs and she says: sex doesn’t solve everything, Mark._

_But it solves some things because she’s not crying anymore and this thought is brightening enough that he slings an arm around her when she’s kicked off her torn stockings. We can stay here, he says. And when she wrinkles her nose he kisses the side of her head. Beggars can’t be choosers, Addie, he says and regrets it when she turns huge wounded eyes on him._

_What is this to you, Mark? Is it just sex? Is it just… and when her voice trails off he sees her, really sees her, and her bare legs are shaky, torn stockings on the floor, tight pencil skirt still hoisted up her hips. There’s a button missing from her blouse – that one’s his fault, that was his teeth – and beard burn down the side of her neck. Smudged mascara decorates her cheeks, her red hair is damp against her forehead and she’s his best friend’s wife, and she’s going to cry again. She’s going to cry and he can’t take it so he puts his arms around her so he won’t have to look at her face and he says, it’s not just sex._

_When she sleeps in his arms that night in the wrought iron bedframe they slammed into the wall he runs his fingers down her back, counts her vertebrae along with his sins. He’s sad for her and he loathes himself and then his trailing fingers find the gold bracelet around her wrist and he thinks she might deserve this as much as he does._

Amy vanishes. Mark’s walking to the door on someone else’s legs, damp towel around his waist, pulling the knob mechanically.

“Hi! It’s terrible out there. My patient was already pre-eclamptic but then the heat index….” She shakes her head, hands Mark the large overnight bag slung over her shoulder. She’s been bringing her things over piecemeal. She’s been filling up his apartment with the trail of breadcrumbs he didn’t think to erase and when she leans in to kiss him his cheeks warm with shame.

She moves in closer, silk blouse damp with sweat between her breasts, and the scent of her is as confusing and arousing as ever; he wants her here but he doesn’t want her here and so he holds her off by the shoulders even as he captures her lips. She’s pushing against him, trying to hold him tighter. “Addison.” He buffs her neck with his stubble, he knows she likes it, and she sighs against him. 

“I missed you,” she says softly and he doesn’t understand how her words can make him cringe while the hurt little tone of her voice goes straight to his groin.

He’s busy wondering how he can still surprise himself, how he can be this … _sick_ , when she speaks again.

“I … have something I need to tell you, Mark. I wasn’t going to tell you, but—“

“Amy!” Addison interrupts whatever it was to pull away from Mark, her surprised bleat ringing in his ears.

‘…uh, Amy’s here,” Mark finishes dully. “She stopped by before, I didn’t know she was—“

“My AC’s on the fritz,” Amy interrupts, her tone light. She’s back in her clothes, quick as a cat, wet hair finger combed down her back.

“Oh! Well, it’s…good to see you,” Addison says tentatively, looking from one of them to the other.

“You look better than the last time I saw you.” Amy smiles with those sharp little teeth. “Did you come to check on Mark or … is your AC broken too?”

“My AC is fine.” Addison’s voice is tight. “I’m…just checking in.” Addison’s eyes drift to the overnight bag Mark is holding, and Amy’s meet them there. 

The lie lingers and then Addison pastes on a smile. “How have you been, Amy?” And she moves in, to hug Amy perhaps, and Mark sees the exact moment Addison sees Amy’s wrist.

Addison’s worried blue eyes turn to his; Amy’s eyes are clear sky without an ounce of guilt. She looks self-satisfied if anything. 

They’re Derek’s eyes.

“Mark gave it to me.” Amy shrugs. “Nice, right? Some chick left it here, I guess. Revolving door and all that.”

“Amy…” Addison looks worried and Mark’s heartbeat is loud, but –

“He couldn’t even remember her name,” Amy finishes, then stands on tiptoe to kiss each of them on the cheek in turn, his front door closing hard behind her like a slap, like the intro drumbeat to the rustling as Addison reaches into purse, holds something out to him that makes his stomach drop and the pomegranates rise in his throat again.

“I’m…pregnant, Mark.”

The ringing sound of the elevator is loud in the hall. Amy is finally gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for visiting my twisted 2013 brain. We hope you will come back!


End file.
